


A Case of the Crazies - look i don't have a title. Sherlock and Moriarty Bang and Chase Each Other

by mdaoust245



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canada, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Moriarty is Alive, Omega Sherlock, Omegaverse, Sherlock's Violin, Sorry Not Sorry, Top Jim Moriarty, Virgin Sherlock, make it gay, make it transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 18:49:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16455380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mdaoust245/pseuds/mdaoust245
Summary: Sherlock is a young omega about to be married off. One love letter won't get out of his head. It's not the logical choice, it's not even a valid choice. But will Moriarty be ignored?





	A Case of the Crazies - look i don't have a title. Sherlock and Moriarty Bang and Chase Each Other

“Alphas and omegas. Ah, a romance written in blood, sweat, and tears. Tears of joy? Tears of sadness?Why, why don't we find out?”  
Sherlock looked over the paper and arched his eyebrows. Monotone, he said “He's trying to write me a love letter. It is terrible.”  
“Don't complain,” chided his mother, fluttering around to sit on the couch beside her youngest son. “I think it's very sweet of him.”  
“At least he cares,” quipped in the father from the kitchen, where he was pouring wine for the two of them and the eldest son, who would be home from college for the supper.  
It was a big night tonight, after all. Sherlock had to choose which family would take him in as the omega for their alpha son. Exceptionally, or perhaps as a sign of the times, the Holmes parents were allowing their omega son to help choose which family he would be married off to. At the flush age of sixteen, Sherlock was due to be married any moment now, having already had his first heat. In fact, it was almost late to be married, and some more traditional families were turning up their noses at the whole affair.  
“Too modern,” one persnickety family had sent back. “Now he's too old to bond properly!”  
Well, the Holmes wanted Sherlock to have a little of a 'sense of who he was' before he up and went away into a new family. That, or perhaps these two betas were just postponing the inevitable – which is what their eldest son thought all this rubbish was about.  
“Is it done yet?” Mycroft quipped the moment he stepped foot within the house.  
“No,” said Sherlock, still eyeing the piece of paper. Beside him, the mother sat all a'flutter and wanting to take a look at it.  
Mycroft rolled his eyes as the father appeared by his side. They exchanged pleasantries and the mother waved gleefully at their eldest (alpha) son. She stayed put on the couch, eagerly watching Sherlock.  
“He just got that letter today,” whispered the father to Mycroft.  
“Oh, bloody hell,” muttered Mycroft as if this was all giving him a headache.  
“It's a very strange letter,” started Sherlock, only to be interrupted by his older brother.  
“Just pick one!” Mycroft groaned. “What's for supper?”  
“Mycroft,” chided the mother “This is a very important decision in your brother's life!”  
Mycroft snorted, invisible in the kitchen with the father. The mother inched closer to Sherlock. “Well dear?” she asked sweetly, eyes a glimmer. “You do seem to like that letter.”  
“It is intriguing,” murmured Sherlock, inhaling to go on and tell her about the slant of the writing, the particular perfume in the paper, the expensive quality of both the paper and the ink – but the mother just nodded.  
“That's good, that's good,” she said, rising to her feet to accept the glass that her husband was approaching her with. Like a sulking dog, Mycroft followed. Perhaps he wanted to tell them all about his latest academic exploits. Perhaps he wanted to be the center of attention that he was used to inhabiting, what with his promising career ahead of him and all.  
But for once, today, the attention was on the omega. A thing that had increasingly grown to disturb both brothers who weren't used to this sort of attention dynamics.  
It was strange for Sherlock, who since birth had been taught to be silent, supportive of whomever he was beside, and always,always, to hold his silence, to suddenly be the center of attention. So many people to meet! So many letters to read!  
Well, in fact, there had only been three letters. One from a wealthy family in Saudi Arabia who sent one describing the wealth of their estate. It had been cold, unsentimental, and most exquisitely perfumed. The second had been from a moderately wealthy German family's eldest daughter who wrote poetically about her budding love for Sherlock and how devoted of an alpha she'd be. This last one however was from a barely wealthy American family. They seemed peaceful, un-scandalous, and well put together. And the letter...  
Sherlock sniffed it for the umpteenth time. He liked that perfume. It was strong,musky, and it reminded him of open fields and grassy hills. Furthermore, the writing was... intriguing.  
“You're going to choose that one,” said Mycroft as he planted himself beside the couch, sipping at his wine.  
“You don't even know who it's from,” said Sherlock, a little miffed his interest had been so obvious.  
Mycroft cleared his throat in a 'holier than thou' moment. “Well, let's see. Your pupils are dilated, you're sniffing it though you've obviously had it for plenty of time, therefore you're smelling it more than once,denoting a particular interest. You're reading it over and over, which is unusual because you've obviously also finished reading it. And so, that leads me to conclude that you are interested in some, ah, illogical way.”  
Both parents looked at each other, a little flabbergasted by this battle of wits that their children seemed to have fun with.  
“It is not at all illogical,” said Sherlock flatly, folding the letter up and setting it in his lap. “The family claims to be moderately wealthy though they are hardly above average in their financial status. The perfume the paper is scented with is obviously American, albeit expensive. So is the paper and the ink. Yet the writing style is-,”  
and again, Sherlock hesitated. Mycroft snorted.  
Supper happened. Names were paraded around the table, all the names of the families that had inquired, that had sent pre-deposits for the dowry. So many names. But one alone stuck out. The one that had been signed at the bottom of that letter.  
But Sherlock hated to admit it, but Mycroft was right. It was illogical. There was no promise of wealth or an easy life. Just a writing style beyond the usual.  
Really, he told himself, this was petulant and stupid. He was choosing where he'd spend the rest of his life. He ought to choose wisely. Choose for power, for safety, for ease and luxury.  
In the end, perhaps that German woman was the right choice, he told himself as the supper wound on and on. Chatter happened but he didn't partake in it. He was drowning in his thoughts that seemed almost too chaotic for his head to contain.  
“So? Sherlock?” his father suddenly said.  
Sherlock startled. The table had been cleared. The family was waiting. It was time.  
A name bubbled to his lips, but he turned it down. “The German lady, Adler? Her.”  
Mycroft smirked. “Was that who the fateful letter was from?”  
“No,” said Sherlock. “That was James Moriarty.”  
A name he felt he would not soon be able to forget.


End file.
